


Caprice

by thisintermezzo



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, spoilers for Ion's backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisintermezzo/pseuds/thisintermezzo
Summary: Removing a curse slot isn't pleasant for either party involved.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Caprice

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do something with the time Ion + Guy spend together when Ion removes the curse slot, especially since Anise says in a skit afterwards that they "both look half dead". Anyway, some kind of friendship time.

The sun is setting as Ion leaves the others behind, heading to the room where Guy is already waiting for him. His parting conversation with Luke has left a bad taste in his mouth, but he doesn’t regret telling him about how and why the curse slot works the way it does. It’s better for him to know. At least Tear and the others will be able to spend some time with Luke and cheer him up while it's being removed.

Guy is sitting facing away from him when Ion enters, his hand over the place where the mark is burned into his arm. He startles slightly as Ion closes the door behind himself.

“Thanks for offering to do this,” the young man starts, trying to maintain some semblance of his usual, casually upbeat self. He smiles, but it’s an awkward, hollow gesture. They both know he’s feeling a lot of things right now, most of them bad.

Ion sets his staff down across the nearest chair and sits down on the bed opposite Guy. He would like to be able to smile as some kind of reassurance or say something good about it, but knowing the removal process is going to be unpleasant makes it difficult. He succeeds at mirroring the smile for a moment, but the situation warrants a straight face, and so it fades quickly. This is his first time attempting to do something like this, but saying so might betray more about his replica status than he’s willing to risk right now. Sharing that information can come at another time.

“I think I should begin by telling you what I told Luke,” Ion says instead, trying to sound level. “The curse slot doesn’t grant its user total control of the target or make them do something they have no desire to.”

Guy laughs wryly at this and rakes a hand through his blond hair, looking at the floor. He doesn’t reply.

“Though…” continues Ion, “I suppose now that it’s been used against you, perhaps you already understand how it works.”

“It works by dragging up old memories so they cloud your mind,” Guy volunteers without looking up. “You can’t think about anything else, and it overwhelms your self-control.”

“That’s right…”

There’s a long silence. “Do I need to tell you what it makes me think about?”

Ion shakes his head. “No, I trust you to share with us once you’re ready.”

He certainly can’t blame Guy for needing to find the right time to explain. He’s still struggling actively with the notion of discussing being a replica, as much as he feels he should come clean about it sooner or later. There has been so much going on in such rapid succession that it's been difficult to decide whether or not it's the right time to share these kinds of things.

“I don’t think removing this curse slot will be simple, and it might be better for you to begin the process without already being overwhelmed.”

Guy sighs. “Thanks, Ion. I appreciate it. And… yeah, I think everyone should know--especially Luke--but that can come later.”

It’s a little uncomfortable to think that the user knew enough about Guy to know he could be manipulated this way to begin with. What _does_ Sync know, exactly? Surely being made head of intelligence for the God Generals must mean he has some skill in collecting useful information, but it seems almost as though there must be more to it than that, like another connection of some kind. And for him to be able to use Daathic artes, he must be…

Ion feels his chest tighten apprehensively at the thought, and he pushes it away. There’s no time for that right now. The priority is helping Guy. He deliberately clears his head, thankful for having such a practised neutral expression. It’s useful in times like this.

He stands up. It would be best to begin right away, to avoid the risk of the curse slot being used again.

“It’s your right arm, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Guy attempts to roll up his sleeve, but finds the cuff is too narrow to get up that high, even once unbuttoned. He tries another way, but it’s still awkward and doesn’t uncover the whole area.

“Guess it’s time to take this off,” he concludes, removing his vest and then slipping his shirt off altogether.

Ion takes a breath to ready himself, eyes fixed on the spot. He’s never used a curse slot, and he’s certainly never removed one, but this is a Daathic fonic arte, knowledge of which seems to exist within him inherently. His original didn’t have much opportunity nor desire to teach him the finer points personally, but Ion assumes at the bare minimum that his knowledge must surpass Sync’s. If he is who Ion suspects he must be, there was even less room for him to learn about these skills, and yet he still managed to do this somehow. Ion must therefore be capable of removing it.

The boy touches Guy’s arm, the mark flaring up in response to him, vivid and purple. Guy flinches.

How strange to see it react like this. Ion isn’t the one who applied it, though it makes sense that the seal certainly can’t tell the difference. He tries not to frown.

“It comes off in stages,” he explains. “Most Daathic seals behave something like a layer of locks when they’re undone. I’m sorry it might be hard on you.”

Guy takes a shaky breath. “Well, we gotta do what we gotta do, right? Ready when you are, I guess.”

Ion closes his eyes and fans out his hand. He had intentionally studied written records of any Daathic artes he didn't know inherently, but artes like this one in particular had always seemed so bizarrely specific that he never imagined having need of them. For what possible purpose could Fon Masters of bygone times have wanted such a skill? What was it intended for? It seems so malicious it’s hard to believe it exists in such an official capacity.

The first layer of glyph comes off easily, like a counter-clockwise spin. There’s a flash of fonons Ion can see even through his closed eyes, and he opens them hesitantly. One detail has now faded from the mark. There seem to be two remaining. They’re not off to a bad start, at least.

“There should be three parts,” he conveys to Guy, who seems a bit relieved that nothing bad has happened yet. Perhaps the wording is ambiguous enough to cover his uncertainty at the number. “I’m going to begin the second one now. Are you ready?”

Thankfully, Guy doesn’t ask for clarification on anything, because Ion’s memory of this arte is hazy and he’s not completely sure of what his target should be preparing for.

“Go for it.”

Ion cracks a small smile at this, then casts again. He can feel his arte plunge itself between the layers of the curse slot--two left, just like he thought--prying them apart. Guy grimaces, then bows his head, teeth gritted. There’s a split second where Ion can feel how the arte works against its victim, its elaborate curling lines digging deep, like tethers to dark, angry feelings that lurk invisibly inside Guy’s head. It’s such a stark contrast with his usual demeanor. Ion can feel the connection to the arte as though he had cast it himself, like the strings of control now connect to his own hand instead of its original caster’s. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

He fights for a moment to disentangle himself from it, trying to break the connections, but they resist him a little. It’s hard to tell initially if this is due to his own inexperience or something else altogether. Guy bites back a sound like he’s been injured, but Ion knows he’s not casting the counter-arte incorrectly. Does it run that deep? Is that what makes it so effective?

Ion forces his way through the second layer with as much finesse as he can manage, undoing and finally breaking it with a final burst of fonic power. It steals his breath in an instant, and he puts a knee down on the bed to keep from falling over.

“I’m alright,” he lies before Guy can concern himself. They need to get this done now that they’ve gotten this far. “Just a little more.”

He steadies himself, resolutely about finishing the job in spite of the way his vision tries to blur. Ion casts again immediately, wondering in passing if this is something is original could have done in one clean sweep. Wondering if Sync could do similarly. The initial arte doesn’t use the seventh fonon, so perhaps there’s still some tiny possibility that they aren’t connected by a terrible past, but it seems unlikely.

Ion’s counter-arte fits neatly into the last of the curse seal glyph, like a key in a lock.

Guy bites back a cry like he’s been stabbed, hand grabbing for his upper arm. His fingers dig in deeply, like he can distract himself from one pain with another. A flash of resistance strikes against Ion’s arte, startling enough to almost break his concentration, but he manages to salvage it. Anguish ripples back at him through their connected fonons--an echo of fear, of hopelessness, of fatigue that feeds into despair and then into rage. It loops viciously, and Ion can feel it radiating off of Guy now, not only directly through the arte, but from his friend’s entire being.

 _He lost something_ , Ion thinks clearly, and Guy’s tangle of feelings suddenly punctures through the arte like a sword that Ion can only barely manage to protect himself from. Guy lost something, and it hurt him more deeply than any single thing Ion has ever felt -- a completely consuming grief that branches off into a whole assortment of other negative feelings. With all of these things to work with, it’s little wonder the curse slot was as effective as it was earlier that day.

The boy is beginning to feel it distantly, too, as though those feelings are so loud they echo back in his own head as well. He pushes more fonons into the arte, layering his glyph over Sync’s, elements neatly fitting together, dissipating in some places but barring him in others. He realizes with dismay that some part of Guy doesn’t want him to remove the curse slot. Some part of him, deep and dark and hurting, _wants_ to be angry and lose control. That was clearly exactly what Sync was counting on, and he was right to do so. Maybe if Ion hadn’t tried to remove it now, and it had remained for long enough to be activated even once more, it wouldn’t have been removable at all.

“You have to fight it, Guy,” Ion says insistently.

“I’m _trying_ ,” he replies through gritted teeth. He’s trembling now under the strain of it, trying to force the bad thoughts and feelings from his head as Ion struggles to peel away the burning brand that’s provoking him.

The artes fit together less cleanly now, and Ion endeavors to tighten his casting so that it stands a better chance of working under the narrowed parameters. He can feel the dark feelings rippling off Guy beginning to lessen, weakening and trembling under the threat of dissipation coming from Ion’s arte. It feels as though they’ve been connected like this for a very long time, but it's probably only been minutes.

Guy curses indistinctly under his breath, and the wave of bad feelings that radiates from him now gives a much clearer impression than the others. Something about his family, it seems. This is a saddening sentiment, Ion thinks, but also wholly alien to him as someone who never had a family to begin with.

In the early days, when he was learning all the details of the life he was now going to pretend was his own, he had been told about the real Ion’s circumstances. He had been born in Malkuth. He was taken to Daath when he was very young in order to learn his role under Evenos, and he presumably never saw his parents again. Ion had wondered if those same people ever saw him from afar and were proud of him, the boy they believed was their son, the Fon Master. They didn’t realize their actual son was dead. They likely didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, if they even knew he was ill. His replacement wouldn’t know their faces, but then, would the real Ion have?

 _Concentrate_ , _Ion_ , he tells himself.

It had been difficult at first to think of himself by that name when he knew he was just borrowing it from someone else, living as someone's replacement, but it’s his name now. He is Ion, though in a different way than the person he’s a copy of. This Ion is determined to make himself a different person, and he’s going to start by helping the people within reach in any way he can.

Guy seems to be wearing down. Encouraged by the progress, Ion manages to redouble his efforts, feeling Guy’s resolve start to fold. He’s slowly letting go of the part of him that doesn’t want to give up on… What is this motivation? Revenge? Gradually, the young man begins to uncurl from the tight, grimacing posture he’s bent himself into, and Ion’s glyph finally, finally manages to rotate into place and stick. It shatters like colored glass, fonons dissipating, and both of them sigh.

Ion is aware now of being completely exhausted, and he lets himself drop down next to Guy on the bed, trying to catch his breath.

He glances over at Guy, who looks relieved but is also sweating like he just broke a fever. He seems otherwise to be on the path to being in good spirits again already, however--which is very like him--and that makes it worth it.

“It’s done,” Ion concludes, though they both know.

Guy sighs again, a big, long exhale. “Thanks…” There’s a small pause. “Are you doing okay?”

Ion closes his eyes for a moment, but nods. There’s a trembling fatigue that sinks into him after he uses Daathic artes--dizzy, breathless, and disorienting--but he’s going to do his best to recover for a few minutes and then keep going. The group doesn’t have time to worry about him right now, and he doesn’t want them to. At the very least, he’ll need to put up a good front for a while so Anise doesn’t use up all her energy fretting over him. He smiles faintly at the thought. She’s a good friend. They all are.

He rises to his feet with some effort. Guy is now regarding him with a noticeable concern, which must mean he looks about as bad as he feels, but Ion still isn’t sorry for helping.

“Do you need some time?” he asks.

Guy shakes his head, picking up his shirt and slipping it back up onto his shoulders. He wipes his forehead on the back of one sleeve.

“Nah. I’m sure Luke is worried enough after I tried to kill him and then blacked out.” He smiles humorlessly, and Ion smiles sympathetically in return. “You can let them know I’m ready.”

Ion only stumbles a little in going to retrieve his staff (he’s proud of himself for this), then alerts the guards outside the room that their friends can return at any time. He’s told they headed in various directions, so it may be a little while before they return. He conveys this to Guy.

“I have a little time to get my head straight, then,” Guy concludes.

The fact that he does appear to intend to talk about this as soon as Luke and the others return is a little surprising to Ion, who had to feel the secondhand waves of misery that have apparently existed, invisible, inside Guy this whole time. He must be ready to leave those feelings behind. Maybe all he really needed was a push to do so. It’s heartening, because even in spite of his own unfortunate reasons for existing, Ion does want to try to be honest about who and what he is. If Guy can do this, maybe he can, too. 

Ion thinks he understands Guy a little better now. He’s someone who doesn’t want his friends to worry about him, even if that means he’s spent a lot of time pushing down old feelings. He’s apparently a bit like Anise that way, which means old habits may die hard. Hopefully this situation can pave the way for him to do all he needs to in order to find some kind of real closure. He seems to be willing to try.

“You’re a good person, Guy,” Ion decides after a moment. He smiles again, but it probably comes across as more tired than sincere.

“Am I?” The young man laughs. “I’m glad you think so, Ion. We’ll see how you guys all feel once you hear more about… this whole thing.” He gestures vaguely to his healed arm. “I think Luke is worried I hate him now, but I’m more worried he’s going to hate _me_.”

“Somehow,” Ion says, “I think it will be alright.”


End file.
